Life Challenges, No. 9: A Home Without Peace

Toyin Falola

When the Family Tree Grows Thorns

They said blood was thicker than water,
They never said blood, when poisoned,
Could drown an entire household.
Laughter here hides inside our funerals.
Our greetings come with knives inside.
Our hugs examine the softness of backs
before deciding where to cut first.
The men sit under the village iroko tree,
full mouths speaking proverbs,
light hands when justice is served.
“The child,” they say,
“must never count the missing teeth
in the mouth of an elder.”
So, truth bows low
while evil perches on the family stool.

Love here is currency
whose exchange rate is obedience.
Forgiveness exists momentarily
when another sacrifice must be made.
Gifts are ropes; favors are chains;

Family meetings are marketplaces
where unemployed names become slaughter.
The mother bites her tongue,
stews her cries and seasons them in patience.

The father confuses fear for respect.
Brothers fight over breadcrumbs
from a loaf already devoured by hatred.
Sisters swaddle their damaged skin
in prints colorful enough
to trick the whole village.
The walls have eyes.

They listened as mothers hissed at children
in the dead of night;
they felt kicks up a shaky staircase
when lovers fought, and love failed.
They absorbed the sound of our prayers
thundering on Sunday,
only to mop up the residue of our sins
whispered in the week that followed.

They’ve watched brothers and sisters turn
into enemies;
They’ve watched one child become the family’s goat—
seasoned blood for every crying pot,
roughage for every broken farm,
food for every manmade catastrophe

The household prayed—then invited
with hands far too greedy and unclean.
But our goat has watched the path
that leads away from the slaughterhouse.

I will not sit around
while my home burns just because those before me built it.
I will not drink the poison
just because it’s served from my grandmother’s cup.
If a snake emerges from the family courtyard,
that snake will never cease to be a snake.

Let them label me difficult.
Let them accuse the city of kidnapping my spirit.
Let them gossip and conjure stories
until their tongues fall from exhaustion.

I choose safety
where family means danger.
I choose what isn’t said
when words quickly assemble into blades.
I choose lovebirds that can exist peacefully,
even if that means walking alone
past the compound’s boundary.
For water does not apologize to contaminated soil
when it escapes.
It flows to the ocean,
ripples filled with no bitterness—
only relentless hopes of purification
and someday becoming clean again.

Soon my family tree will question
why I no longer sit in the comfort of its shade.
I will study its roots
until I find the thorns strapped to its ankles
and say:
“I did not run from my family.”
“I ran from the pain they asked me to nurture
and water like love.”

Sade is a beautiful woman. She is hospitable with her warm smile. Her friends call her the life of the party. You can trust her to bring life to any gathering she is in. She is the typical Yorùbá woman who wears her married status with pride. “Ooooh, I am sorry I would not be available for the hangout; ife mi is out of town.” Such was her response anytime friends invited her for outings, and her husband was away. Everyone within her circle knows how much she adores her husband of ten years. They were a happy family. The role model family that finds a place in sermons on the pulpit.

However, there is another area unknown to the public. Sade was a subject teacher in a big private school in town. Of the staff in the school, she stands out uniquely with her long-sleeved blouses. One may even argue that she owned more long-sleeved blouses than anyone in the school. Her colleagues who find her sense of dressing funny and maybe modest would often tease her about it. Sometimes, they joke that she dresses for harmattan in the middle of March. Whenever they teased her, she would laugh, play along, and blame the weather. The funny atmosphere did not allow suspicion. No one suspected there could be any other reason.

Sade’s routine was clear. Every morning by eight, she stood before her class of sixty students, teaching them poems about courage, hope, and dignity. She smiled when they smiled, dished out exercises, corrected their essays, settled quarrels and encouraged the shy ones to speak with confidence. Then in the afternoon, she returned to the one place where she had lost her own voice.

Her life did not start that way. Eleven years earlier, life had looked different. Her husband, Adewale, was everything she had prayed for. She had no reason to flag anything during their courtship. He was an easygoing religious young man with a good-paying job.  Friends and family believed they made a perfect couple.  They were the ideal couple. Things continued this way even after the birth of their first child.

Unfortunately, things took a new turn in the fourth year of being married. This was when the first slap hit her. It happened after an argument over money. Sade was shocked and confused. This was because her husband immediately showed remorse, knelt beside her, apologized repeatedly, and promised it would never happen again. The next day he tried to “make up” for his actions. He bought flowers, took her to dinner and blamed the pressure at work. It felt genuine.

Sade believed him. She wanted to. Many months passed before it happened again, until it became a cycle. On some days, she was left with a black eye and sometimes swollen lips. By then, apologies had become part of the cycle.  Sade was used to everything he could say. It was either work was stressful, or the children were noisy. Sometimes, he claimed she spoke out of turn or that she nagged. With time, she stopped being concerned with what started each quarrel. It was pointless. She only remembered how every quarrel ended.

Their son, Daniel, had learnt to react accordingly. If the front door opened a little louder than usual, he quietly carried his younger sister into their bedroom while waiting for the almost inevitable. No one could tell when his father would find fault and raise his hands at their mother. He always blamed her for any misdoings. Daniel’s reaction confirmed that children are much more observant than they can imagine.

One Saturday afternoon, Sade summoned enough courage to visit her mother. She had hoped her mother would take her side. Hence the shock at her mother’s response. When she undressed, her mother stared at the bruises knowingly and sighed, “My dear,” she said, “you just must be patient; marriage is not easy. At least, you have a roof over your head.” Sade could not believe her ears. She had sought her mother for comfort; however, her words settled in her heart like a stone. She was hurt and confused when the aging woman looked at her and said, “I endured worse from your father.” Perhaps she meant to comfort her with these words. However, nothing of such happened. Just like her mother, others gave similar advice. Her aunt suggested she exercise patience, while another suggested prayer. They were all concerned about keeping her married.

No one asked how she was faring. It was as though nothing was wrong. Life continued as usual; Daniel resumed school as a boarder. His younger sister, Tolu, remained at home with the parents. For a young girl, she had colorful dolls and loved arranging them in neat rows across the sitting room. Each doll had a name, and she role-played with them as one happy family. One evening, Sade walked in quietly while Tolu was playing alone. The little girl in her play pointed at one of the dolls and shouted.

“I told you to shut up.” She spoke.

Then she slapped it.

“If you do it again, I’ll beat you with Daddy’s belt”

Sade felt her knees weaken. She could not bear it. For years she had thought she was protecting her children by keeping the family together. It never occurred to her that they had been watching everything. Sleep eluded her that night as the incident from the day kept her awake. She was no longer thinking about herself. Her daughter’s utterance struck a chord in her mind.  She could not stop thinking what kind of man Daniel might become or what kind of marriage Tolu might one day accept as normal. She cried softly as she concluded that violence had slowly entered their children’s understanding of love. The next morning, she approached her husband. She poured out her heart. After all, he often listened but would always have excuses. She told him their home no longer felt like home. Peace had eluded their home. She lived in fear just like the kids.

Adewale said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, he shifted his gaze from hers and said twice in a low tone.

“My father beat my mother.”

“I always swore I would never become him.” It was the first honest thing he had said of the matter in years.

Just as with Adewale, certain habits can travel from across generations if unchecked. It was wrong to allow his childhood to destroy the most important aspect of his adult life. The home should be a haven. No woman or child should have to gauge the spouse or parents’ mood before sitting in the house.  A home should be the first point of call for safety.

            The conversation changed everything. However, trust could not be restored with just that one conversation. Adewale agreed to seek professional help. Healing would not happen overnight. His sessions took him away from the house for a while. The unfolding events helped other family members understand what was at stake. They realized that preserving a marriage meant little if it cost someone’s safety. The future remains uncertain, but for the first time in years, efforts were being made genuinely.

Many Sades are battling similar scenarios every day. They act strong, help others while they suffer in silence. Family and friends are not helping as they preach the same thing: “save your marriage.” Because of this, many homes have remained broken, and many children have been unconsciously indoctrinated.

In a case where this story feels familiar, you should know that enduring violence is not proof of love, devotion, or faith. Speaking up for help does not signal betrayal. Sometimes the bravest thing to do is never to romanticize pain.

Sade still teaches poetry. And whenever she tells her students that words can change lives, she believes it more than ever. Because peace gradually found its way back into their home on the very day she spoke.